


Tethered

by lostboywriting



Category: Sunless Sea
Genre: Ghosts, Horror, POV Second Person, Seduction to the Dark Side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 17:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostboywriting/pseuds/lostboywriting
Summary: The greatest treasure of Wrack comes at a price.





	Tethered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infernal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/gifts).

You don't set out to do it, the first time. 

You truly don't, even with the Fair King's words in your ears, unwilling to fade: _We are not strangers, you and I. Taste the tether and see for yourself._ Even with the memory of those wide, solemn eyes staring straight into you, and the way the Fair King bit his lip after he spoke, in what seemed it must surely be a rare, precious moment of vulnerability for one so clearly powerful.

You won't deny the Fair King was beautiful, won't deny you were enchanted, for a moment, but you know the price of a tether-tasting, that too spoken in the Fair King's musical voice. _Promise them riches, promise them knowledge, promise them pretty toys—they will come._

The crew have been restless and unhappy since they left Wrack's lock. You can't blame them. At least ordinary corsairs have a hope of being outrun or outfought, if one is alert and one's engines or guns are fierce enough. But an ordinary ship of the Unterzee never sees the wreckers' zubs coming, and couldn't fight them if they did. 

The _Persephone_ surfaces close to the Mourn, and perhaps if your crew were all philosophers of ethics they'd consider the difference not so great as all that, and turn their noses up at that too. But the Mourn has taverns and brawls and bawdy songs, and men and women and everything in between willing to lie down (or sit or stand, or perform complicated feats of partnered gymnastics) with anyone in exchange for good coin, and so your crew feels, on the whole, considerably better about the Mourn than they did about Wrack's halls. They need a night of shore leave sooner rather than later, you judge, and this will do. Besides, the Admiralty always pays well for news of the place, and so you leave your crew getting loudly, cheerfully soused at the Arrant Limpet and set out to hear what you can hear in other corners.

It's in the common room of a tavern halfway up the docks that you hear _him_: a brawny man with his skin all inked in eyes and roses, swaggering drunk as he boasts of his latest work. A Royal Navy ship taken, down south—an old frigate, not one of their great dreadnaughts as used to rule the Unterzee in the years when the Navy mattered more, but an impressive feat nonetheless. The ship herself kept intact and claimed for Gaider's Mourn, and all her crew killed or sold down to the Isle of Cats, to have their memories fed to Zaira's bees. The man grins, and shows three teeth of gleaming diamond. "And that's what London's rule is worth! Let her send as many of her men for us as she likes. We'll do the same to 'em all, and come out the richer for it." The room roars its approval. 

You stare into your tankard for a long, thoughtful moment. Do you care for what remains of the Navy? Perhaps, perhaps not—but you've seen the gardens on the Isle of Cats.

You rise and make your way across the room to where the braggart holds court, surrounded by crew and admirers. "Barkeep," you call. "A round for these brave warriors, who strike at the shackles a fading empire would place on the zee." 

This is met with cheers and shoulder claps from the crew, and Roses-and-Eyes preens a bit. "Aye," he says, warmly. "I like that way of putting it. Bravest on the zee, my lads. Not a one of 'em flinched from the fight, you know." He pauses, peering at you, and his expression darkens. "Here, I've seen you around the docks before. You're not our kind—you're out of London yourself."

You smile, easy and affable. "The important word there," you say, leaning in confidentially, "is _out._"

The man blinks, then bellows out a laugh as if you've said something particularly clever, and you know: it will be easy, all too easy, to weave a net of words to snare him with. He's incautious, riding too high on the wave of his recent triumph, and he's drunk too much, and he likes praise too well.

_It's a bold thing you did. You struck a blow for free souls everywhere across the zee, and told the Traitor Empress where she could go in the bargain. You're heroes, you and your men._ All of it is eaten up—or drunk up, at the very least. That this fool brought down a Navy frigate must have been blind luck or Storm's fickle favor, or one more piece of evidence of just how reduced the Navy is in its current state.

Several drinks, swapped tales of derring-do, and odes to the freedom of the zee later, you've become the very best of friends, and it's then that you let your mood sober and gaze pensively into your cup, swirling the ale in thoughtful circles. "Heroes," you say again. "You know, you're good men, you and yours. I can see that. Good men."

A thick hand thuds on the table. "D__n right. Best crew a fellow could ask for. But you're not so bad yourself, for all you're an honest Londoner."

"Half honest," you say, and he laughs again. 

"But what I'll tell you now is true," you add, "because you're a good enough man not to laugh: there's a place I've sailed by just once, far out in the dark places, that no zailor should ever venture near. Not if he values his life."

And you see the spark in the man's eyes, and know you have him.

* * *

_A great beast, is it, you ask? The greatest. I have seen it crack hulls like eggshells between its teeth, and swallow the yolk in a single gulp._

_Sir, I fear I see your thoughts, and I beg you, steer clear of it. Yes—yes, I will grant you, glory would await him who brings it down, glory and honor beyond any other on zee or land, and—yes, your crew is bold, the boldest, but even so—_

_No, of course I do not doubt your strength. I only—_

_Very well. Very well. I will give you the co-ordinates, but I pray you will see sense and take them as the warning they are, not as an enticement. Some glories, no matter how great, I must believe are not worth the risk—_

_—But perhaps, as you say, I still have too much of staid old London in me. If the zee calls you to go, friend, then of course you must. I will bid you farewell, and make offerings to Salt that your guns fire true._

It's too easy.

* * *

You return to Wrack a month later, and the Fair King's smile is breathtakingly bright and almost childishly joyous as you enter the hall. "Captain. Welcome. You sent us a ship after all."

You want to look away from that not-quite-question, but the Fair King's eyes are entrancing, holding you fast. "It was—special circumstances," you manage.

"Ah." The smile takes on a wistful, melancholy note. "I see, and I understand." A pause, and a breath that is not quite a sigh. "Still. You have done us a favor, and payment shall be yours. Here." From a bag by his chair, he fishes out a twisted piece of metal about the size of his hand. Its edges are jagged and dangerously sharp. "Scrap torn away in the first drilling of the hull. The other pieces went to the wreckers who brought her down, but a part of that honor is yours, and so I kept this one, and hoped you would return to claim it."

Gingerly, you take the thing. It sits cold and heavy in your palm.

The Fair King beams up at you, and adds, "And there is some coin as well, of course. But that which you hold now—that is the true treasure." His voice softens, growing fervent. "I told you before—we have known each other, you and I. I suppose that must have sounded absurd. But I swear to you, Captain, if you taste the tether you will see that I am neither mad, nor a liar."

Only as you walk out of the hall, scrap in hand, do you wonder how the Fair King knew which of the ships was sent by _you._

* * *

Some time later the _Persephone_ glides out of the lock, silent as the sunken graveyard around her. The crew goes about their duties solemn and subdued, and you know that later, when the tether-grown hulls piled around Wrack are a distant nightmare, there will be mutters about your return here, and about your visit to the Fair King's hall. 

For now, you see your course set, then retreat to your cabin to reflect and make record. The vision—you cannot shake the memory of the vision, a smiling Lady with a face like the stars, and her arms sliding warm around you, and the way her lip puckered as she bit it—you have seen her face before. You know you have seen her face before.

"Did the tether taste sweet?"

You turn, and your hand goes to the knife at your belt.

A man—or something that was once a man—stands in the center of the cabin. He is pale as a drownie-pearl and bloated, eyes staring vacant and unblinking at the wall, but he grins a wide grin the instant your eyes fall upon him, and diamonds wink and flash from between his teeth. "Glory," he rasps. The word is accompanied by a rush of water pouring from his mouth, and smells of salt and bile and fish. "Glory and honor, you said."

Your stomach turns in revolt. The apparition's skin is inked with eyes and roses, and you remember that night at the docks, and understand. "As if the men of the Mourn know the meaning of those words."

"Hah! We met the beast." The drowned man steps closer, still grinning, and drags a limb-leadening chill along with him. Your feet refuse to move. The drowned man's voice creaks bitterly, like a hull under pressure. "Oh aye, we met the beast you spoke of, that breaks ships like eggs to suck the yolk out. It exists. But you know its true nature, don't you, Captain? Not a zee-beast, that one. Not a thing harpoons can pierce the skin of."

You swallow, strangely calm. "Did I say it was?"

The drowned man leans in, lips almost to your ear, and whispers: "_Glory waits him who brings it down._" His breath is cold and damp as a cavern beneath the zee.

"Not a lie. Wrack is a terror of the Unterzee. And I told you the fate of those who fall into the clutches of its fleet." You tighten your grip on the hilt of the knife. "You chose, still, to seek it out."

A laugh, gurgling and spitting. "True. We chose. I'll give you that, Captain. We chose." A hand, cold and slick with something unknown, rises to catch your chin. "And now we sleep, and wait our chance."

Your knife slashes quick, straight into the dead man's wrist—and meets a wet leathery mass of kelp where a breath earlier stood a corpse. You jerk back, and the knife tangles in the weeds as if the stuff is grabbing it by the blade.

The laugh continues, turning mocking, and a tendril of kelp reaches out and curls around the wrist of your knife hand like a coiling snake. You yank your hand back, and the knife clatters to the ground and skids across the floor.

"Not yet," the voice whispers, and now for the first time it's perfectly clear, free of the gurgling of water. "Not strong enough yet."

You lunge for the knife, snatch it up and spin to stare around the cabin, breathing fast, but the only sign of the intruder is the small clump of seaweed lying in the center of the floor. As you watch, it dries out and shrivels, and an instant later nothing is left.

"Go bring us more, Captain." There is a leer in the voice, taunting. "After all—you are a part of Wrack, now."

You stare at the spot where the seaweed fell, ears ringing. Do you kneel down and reach out, to press a hand to the floor? A moment later you cannot remember for sure if you did. You think, if you did, you found it dry.

Perhaps—perhaps it was only a false vision, some lingering effect of the tether confusing your senses.

But the tether did taste sweet.

* * *

The second time—well—Tomb-Colonists are basically dead anyway, and eternally looking for interesting ways to become moreso. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, really. Not such a terrible thing, with the sweet taste of tether still tingling on your tongue and the sweeter lure of a half-remembered dream drawing you back. You're tense when the _Persephone_ draws close to Wrack, but no ghosts appear this time, coming or going.

_"Would you bite your lip for me?"_

_A laugh, gentle and amused. "What, like this?"_

_"Yes." You swallow hard, voice growing unaccountably hoarse. "Yes, just like that."_

_"Have you found me, then?"_

_"I think—I think—"_

_A sharp shake of the head, hair flying out in a halo. "You must do more than think. You must know."_

And so there is a third time (but the Khaganians would sink a London ship without hesitation), and a fourth (but it scarcely counts, because—because—), and—after that, do you keep counting? Is there a reason to? _Promise them riches,_ the Fair King says, _promise them knowledge. They are all the same._

But at last the day comes when you meets the Fair King in his hall, and can kneel before him and say, with certainty: _I know you._ That day is a joyous one, and the night—the night is something better, sweeter and more wicked, the two of you tumbling together on pillows that turn to a bed of sweet straw, laughing and whispering secrets.

In the morning, Wrack looks different. Finer, cleaner, richer. Merry songs in ancient languages echo along the hallways, and surprisingly sweet smells waft from the mess halls. After that morning, not only do you no longer try to justify the ships you send to Wrack—you no longer remember that justification once seemed necessary.

* * *

Your cabin door clicks shut behind you, and you pace to your bunk and lie down with arms folded behind your head. Wrack has flourished ever finer and brighter over the months since you and the Fair King found each other, and the wreckers say it's no small part because of you. They say the new hull is named after you too, though you can't make sense of the old Gaelic and nor can they, and the Fair King only smiles secretively when you tries to get it out of him. You grin at the memory, and close your eyes.

Something cold and leathery and damp touches your cheek. Your eyes snap open and you jerk away with a yelp, sitting up and batting reflexively at the unidentified thing.

A strand of kelp lands on the floor with a wet slap, and melts away as you stare at it, and a rattling, waterlogged voice says, "Well done, Captain."

A diamond-bright grin winks at you from across the cabin.

The ghost spreads his hands wide. The tattoos on his arms are no longer visible; his limbs are crusted over in barnacles and anemones and draped with kelp. "I said bring more, and you did, aye? Like the good wrecker you are."

Kelp grows out of the mattress, twining over your legs. You kick frantically, and scrabble at the stuff with your hands. A few strands snap, but not enough, and each that breaks is replaced by three more until you cannot move.

You look up, breathing hard, and now there is more than one ghost in your cabin, fading silently into view: corsairs you dimly remember from roaring taverns on the Mourn; tomb-colonists grinning from bandaged faces and drawing sabers with the grace of many lifetimes of practice; Khaganian zailors in the stained and tattered remnants of once-fine uniforms—and more, and more—

"And now we can do as we swore we would, Captain," Diamond-Tooth adds, leaning close. "One alone? Not strong enough. But many of us—aye, _we can bring down the beast._"

You open your mouth to shout, but water—sourceless, impossible water—pours down your throat, and you choke, coughing. The kelp climbs over you, around your limbs and your torso and your throat, pulls you sideways off the bunk to the floor, and does not stop pulling—

* * *

_In the depths of Wrack, the Fair King closes his eyes and sighs at the sense of his latest lover slipping away. A pity; this one, once inhibitions were lost, was becoming quite an effective agent, and the Fair King was growing genuinely fond. But it's better to give the tether-spirits an outside target for their wrath than to let them turn it on one of his own._

_Anyway, they're all the same, really. The tether works its spell on them all, showing them what they want to see. Promise them riches, promise them knowledge—promise them love, and they will come._

_They're all the same, and so there will be others. There will always be others._

_The tether will bring them and bind them, and for a time, again, it will be sweet._


End file.
